The Stolen Undershaw
by Nachteulchen
Summary: Just a short story in which Holmes and Watson investiagte in the case of a stolen painting.


**The Stolen Undershaw**

It was a fine Saturday morning in April when I came down to the kitchen of our apartment in 221 b Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had gone away for the weekend to visit some relatives in the country and thus I intended to prepare some breakfast on my own. Yet, there was one thing – or rather someone – I hadn't reckoned with: my dear flatmate Sherlock Holmes.

All shelf spaces and tables were occupied with chemical equipment and even in the sitting-room I found a Bunsen burner with a little bowl over it. Black, evil-smelling smoke rose from it and poisoned the air. I opened a window and looked at Holmes, who was placidly examining something with his microscope,

"Blimey, Sherlock! Can't you just once keep the apartment in order? This is supposed to be a home, not a laboratory."

He barely looked up and just murmured,

"I'm in the middle of an experiment."

To him that was explanation enough. So I returned to the kitchen and had at least managed to brew myself some tea, when the doorbell rang.

"John", Sherlock shouted right away, informing me that I was the one to go downstairs and open. Half a minute later I entered the room again, followed by an old friend: Lestrade, of Scotland Yard.

When Holmes saw him he rose and said,

"Ah, Lestrade, it's good to see you. I hope you bring some good news, something against all that boredom, a nice murder perhaps!?"

I sighed disapprovingly although I was used to such comments, as was Lestrade for he just began to explain,

"Well, we do indeed have a case of death. An employee of the French embassy committed suicide last night. "

"And what am I to do then?" Sherlock asked, already losing interest and returning to his microscope.

"The ambassador doesn't seem to have lots of trust in our English police and insisted on you having a look at it. Apparently he is also acquainted with your brother."

Holmes thought about it for a moment and then said,

"In that case, we might as well have a look. My experiment can wait a little while. Let's go, Watson."

While the three of us were driving to the site of crime in a cab, Lestrade provided us with some more information,

"The dead person is a man, 43 years old and named Jacques Desens. He worked as cultural attaché for the French embassy mainly organizing exhibitions and promoting the cultural exchange between France and Britain. Last night he hanged himself in his house."

Sherlock interrupted the inspector to ask,

"And you are absolutely sure that he killed himself?"

"Of course I am."

"Are there any clues to why he did that?" I asked and earned an approving nod from Holmes. So I was asking the right question.

"Well" Lestrade said, "In the last few months Desens was busy organizing an exhibition for the British Museum. It presents paintings by famous French artists with English landscapes and houses as a subject. Unfortunately, the most important painting, which was supposed to be the heart of the exhibition, was stolen from his house two weeks ago. Maybe you read about it in the newspapers?"

I recalled hearing Sherlock speculating about the circumstances of the theft at the breakfast table some days ago.

"Yes" he confirmed, "I read the article. It's a painting of Undershaw in the village of Hindhead and worth more than a million pounds. Apparently the finder will be rewarded 50,000 pounds – if it ever turns up again."

"True" Lestrade said, "And until today my colleagues didn't have the first hint about the painting's whereabouts and there were no suspects. Yet, very early today a gallery owner reported that he found the painting in the chamber of his assistant. The fellow has already been taken into custody. It's ironic, but considering that Desens was responsible for the painting and that it was stolen while under his guard, the suicide is quite likely isn't it."

"But why on earth was such a valuable piece of art kept in his house and not directly in the museum?" I asked.

It was Sherlock, who answered my question,

"That is obvious. The man lived near the museum and the painting arrived when it was closed, probably on a Saturday evening when I think about the rail connections from the continent. It's only consequential to keep its arrival low-key and to store it in a normally most secure house."

Of course he was right in all aspects and Lestrade was affirming that when our cab came to a halt in Great Russell Street only a few yards away from the British Museum.

We entered a huge house in which several police officers were very busy and Lestrade led us to an ample study. Holmes took out his magnifying glass and began examining the room. Desens hang from a ceiling beam. I breathed a sigh at the sight of the dead man and also looked around. On the desk I found a letter.

"Sherlock" I said, "I think Lestrade is perfectly right about the suicide. We've got a note here."

He approached me shaking his head,

"No. This is no suicide. It is murder." He quickly read over the letter. "And this makes everything even clearer."

I looked at him in astonishment and Lestrade cried,

"For heaven's sake, Holmes, what are you saying? Please explain."

"It is all here. Don't you see it?" Sherlock panted but said,

"Just look around. First hint: the knot in the rope. It obviously is a sailor's knot, commonly used in the navy. Judging by the pictures on that wall, however, Desens never was in the navy. He was not even a soldier, though acquainted to some of them. Next hint: in range of his feet there is no chair or anything else with which he could have been able to reach the ceiling. And you surely don't want to tell me that the man flew up there, do you. Last hint: the suicide note was not written by Desens. It was written by a left-handed man, while Desens was right-handed."

"And you know that because…"

"…because this room clearly belongs to a right-handed man. Just look at the handle of this cup over there or at where the pens are lying. Also Desens has traces of blue ink on the fingers of his right hand. But when you look at the note, you can see that the ink is black and slightly blurs from left to right, which only happens when you write with your left hand and wipe over the ink before it is completely dry. And finally: Desens was French. Why should he write his last personal words in English and even make such a mistake as to misspell the _Adieu_ in the very end?"

Now I saw it as well: The e in _Adieu_ – the only French word in the note – was written with a grave accent. Holmes had to be right.

However, not even he was able to provide Lestrade with proper information about the murderer, at least not yet.

"I think I will have a little chat with that gallery assistant that stole the picture." Lestrade finally said.

"I doubt that he is responsible for Desens' death" Sherlock remarked, "But yes, go ahead. Talk to him. By the way: what did you say? Where is this gallery exactly?"

"Oh, it's in Adam's Row in Mayfair; belongs to a Mr. Johnson."

Holmes and I left Lestrade behind investigating and once again took a cab.

"Do you think that visiting this Mr. Johnson will help us to find the murderer?" I asked.

"I'm absolutely sure of it." Holmes answered, leaned back and looked out of the window for the rest of our ride.

Shortly afterwards we found ourselves in front of the gallery of Mr. Johnson's. A bell rang when we entered the elegant premise which was full of paintings and other art objects. It took only a few seconds before a middle-aged, unconfident man came into the room through a door behind a classic mahogany counter.

"Mr. Johnson?"

The man nodded.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague John Watson. We are here because of the lost painting you found this morning."

"So you're from the Yard as well. But I told the police everything."

"We know that. But the latest developments in this case have raised some new questions. So would you please tell us the whole story again?"

Johnson seemed to be less than thrilled but nevertheless he said,

"Well, two weeks ago I read in the newspaper about the stolen painting, which was supposed to be exhibited in the British Museum. As a gallery owner one is of course interested in such occurrences and naturally I kept my ears and eyes open. But I heard nothing more about it and had almost completely forgotten about the incident when this morning my new assistant was late for work. Jimmy has his rooms in the adjacent building, you know, and I went over to wake him up. Entering his bedchamber I found it empty except for the painting. I called for the police right away and about half an hour later Jimmy walked in – still half drunk – and the police took him with them."

While listening to Johnson, Sherlock had scanned our environment without attracting any attention. Now he made a few steps towards the man, who was nervously rubbing his hands and constantly shifting from one foot to another.

"Are you all right, Mr. Johnson?" I asked, "You seem to be very upset. Would you like to sit down for a while?"

"No, no thanks. I'm fine. It's just so terrible. I mean, I didn't know the boy very well, but I would never have thought that he would do such a thing."

Johnson rummaged around in his trouser pockets. He got out some pieces of paper and a handkerchief before he found the cigarettes he was looking for. He put one between his lips and went on searching but apparently could not find a lighter.

"Take mine." Sherlock said and threw a box of matches to Johnson who caught them with his left and a thankful glance. When Johnson had lit his cigarette Holmes asked,

"So, you were very surprised about your assistant Jimmy being a thief. Do you think he could be capable of killing someone?"

"Jimmy? No. Not at all…but then again: one never knows. But why do you ask. Did he…?"

"We don't know yet. An employee of the French embassy who was working at the exhibition was found dead this morning. But quite another matter: did you already get your reward for finding the painting?"

Johnson smiled a little and breathed out some cigarette smoke before he answered,

"No, I didn't. And I guess with the cultural attaché being dead it could take quite a while till I see my money."

Sherlock and I exchanged a quick glance and I began to understand what Holmes had known or at least assumed from the very beginning.

"How do you know the victim of last night's killing was the cultural attaché?" he asked.

Johnson frowned,

"You said that."

"No, I did not."

"But Desens was the cultural attaché wasn't he." Johnson crossed his arms in front of his chest and for a moment I thought that he looked haunted.

"You are right. He was. But I neither mentioned his name nor his position. Do you know what I think, Mr. Johnson?"

"Hit me, Mr. Holmes."

"I think you have stolen the painting of Undershaw and you are also the murderer of Jacques Desens."

Johnson did not look like an unconfident man anymore. He suddenly looked dangerous and an evil grin appeared on his face.

"And why would I do any of that?"

"The papers from your pocket tell me that you have gambling debts and they are enormous. It was the perfect idea to steal a valuable painting. Probably you tried to sell it on the black market, but were not able to negotiate an adequate prise. So you understood that the finder's reward had to be enough."

I did not doubt for a second that Holmes had figured everything out; however, I was not yet able to follow his argumentation. Therefore it was me, who asked the next question,

"And how does the murder fit in this scenario?"

Johnson laughed and Sherlock shook his head in disbelief,

"Desens knew that Johnson had stolen the painting and blackmailed him."

Johnson came around the counter and clapped his hands,

"Bravo! What a nice performance. It's too bad that you can't prove any of that."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that." I said and Holmes agreed,

"The evidence is absolutely clear. Two weeks ago you were at Desens' house. You delivered a Chinese vase belonging to the group over there" he pointed to a collection of white vases with floral designs, "The vase is now standing in Desens' study and I'm quite sure we will be able to find the bill. Anyway, by chance you got to know about the painting, maybe Desens told you in a moment of carelessness or you just saw it. You came back at night to steal it. Desens wasn't stupid. He knew it must have been you and he tried to blackmail you. When he wanted to inform the police, you killed him. Judging by the huge amount of seafaring art in here, it is likely that you were in the navy, where you learned the revealing knot. You hung Desens and wrote his suicide note. I can still see the black ink on your left hand. I could go on, but I think for starters that is enough. Would you like to accompany us to Scotland Yard now, Mr. Johnson?"

And then everything happened very quickly. Johnson rushed towards the door; I got hold of his arm and we fought with each other for a moment. Sherlock was just stepping in when I suddenly felt cold metal at my neck. Johnson clutched me so that I could not move and held a knife to my throat. I hardly dared to breathe.

Holmes raised his hands and calmly said,

"All right, Johnson. Go. Just go. But please leave him alone."

For endless seconds nothing happened. Then Johnson let go of me and disappeared through the door.

Sherlock made certain that I was fine and as soon as I was again able to breathe normally we ran outside as well. There we were taken by complete surprise when we saw Lestrade who was handcuffing Mr. Johnson.

"Lestrade, what…?"

Johnson was marched off and Lestrade said,

"Well, the chat with Jimmy was quite illuminating. He has alibis for the night of the theft as well as for last night and he told us about Mr. Johnson's dubious past. We came here to question him once more and saw through the window that he attempted to kill Dr. Watson. That gives us enough reason to arrest him and…"

Holmes interrupted him,

"…and later I will enlighten you on all the other reasons for Johnson is the murderer you are looking for. But first of all I have to take my friend home."

When I woke up the next morning I expected to find our apartment in shambles once more. However, when I came to the kitchen it was relatively clean and tidy and Sherlock was leaning against the table. While waiting for a pot of tea to brew he was flipping through the latest episode of the magazine _Nature_.

"Morning, Watson. Look at that. Since our last case with the corpse in the Thames I was experimenting on that issue and now Darwin has already published an article 'On the Dispersal of Freshwater Bivalves'. It's a pity. I was planning to write something about that topic because it can lead to interesting deductions in criminalistics."

I yawned loudly. It was still too early in the morning to be that energetic,

"What did you say?"

"Never mind." Holmes said, put away the magazine and took the teapot. Then he led me to our sitting-room where to my amazement the table was already set for an extensive breakfast.

"What is this?" I asked and sat down.

Holmes gave me a radiant smile,

"Well, I just thought it was time to surprise you with something else than the usual experiments. And I understand that you particularly like breakfasts."

As always he was right. I do like breakfasts, especially with my dear friend Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
